


Things You Can't Take Back

by thesnadger



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Drug Dealing, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, LISTEN IT'S...IT'S JUST...THIS ONE IS A LITTLE DARK OKAY?, Memory Loss, Organized Crime, Very Brief Reference To Filbrick Being Physically Abusive, Very Brief Reference To Sex Trafficking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: It's Nineteen Seventy-Something. Stan is running from his mistakes, when he suddenly encounters the last person he ever thought he'd run into out here. What is he doing in Columbia, so far from Glass Shard Beach?





	

**Author's Note:**

> General Content Warning: This story speculates on one of the darkest periods of Stan’s life. Things get intense on a level not typical of my fanfics. I started from the premise that at some point Stan got in over his head with organized crime and drug trafficking. So keep that in mind, and stay safe.
> 
> Thanks and apologies to @scribefindegil for beta reading.

Stan stumbled his way through the dense rainforest growth, trying not to think about how obvious a trail he was leaving or the number of stinging, biting, poisonous things that were swarming around his feet. If he survived this, he was going to make himself a new rule: never get involved with anyone who was a bigger crook than he was. Never, ever again.

It wasn't as if he'd _meant_ to fall in with the cartel. Of course he hadn't, he didn't mean to do half of the incredibly stupid shit he always seemed to find himself doing. It had just started so small...first a little errand for a friend, and then another, and then there was a _new_ friend out of the blue saying that he'd heard that Stan was trustworthy. Suddenly he was holding a package for someone just for a week or two so they didn't go to jail. And then he was carrying it across the border, because it turned out they'd been pulled over drunk driving and gone to jail anyway.

At least he _had_ friends. At least there were people who seemed happy to see him, who didn't roll their eyes and mutter about him when they thought he wasn't looking. He had people who actually watched his back, or loaned him money when he was in a jam. People who'd throw their arms around his shoulders and tell him to call if he needed help or if someone was giving him more than his fair share of shit. With such a promise of loyalty, how could he not make the same promise back?

It wasn't as if there was anyone else out there who wanted him.

And besides, he wasn't involved in any of the real bad stuff. He knew it wasn't milk they were smuggling, sure, but it wasn't like they were forcing it down anybody's throat either. He could think of times in his past when a couple of pills had eased his mind when nothing else would, or a line of blow had saved his life by keeping him awake all night so that he could drive away from trouble. None of that would have been possible without a guy like Stan getting the drugs where they needed to be.

It was just sales, really. Not that different from his usual work, except for once he was selling something people actually wanted.

And then one day what should have been a routine deal went south when some smartass decided to bring their friends for backup and take both the drugs _and_ the money. When Stan saw that jerk pulling out the knife he'd really just acted on instinct, his dumb hotheaded brain making him act before thinking. Only this time it worked to his advantage because it ended with him and his buddy still alive and with their enemies laid out on the ground. After that, they decided he was better at strong-arming than he was at fast-talking border guards and they started sending him along as muscle when someone had to go into a dangerous situation.

It wasn't so bad at first. Sure, it was scary. Sometimes it was downright terrifying. Sure, he had to get into a lot a fights he'd rather have avoided, and yeah, he got hurt. But there was a lot he liked about it too. He liked being able to protect his friends from the people who'd do them harm. He liked being the big guy, the tough guy, liked having the others laugh and call him “El Oso” and talk about how he'd put some psychotic bastard in the hospital. He liked _fighting,_ liked the satisfying feel of throwing a punch and feeling it connect just where it was supposed to. If it came with the flip side of taking some punches, he was good at that too. He'd learned how to take a blow without crumpling from his old man, and boy did it ever end up paying off.

And if part of the job sometimes meant roughing up a snitch or a snoop or a traitor, well, he was still just protecting his friends, wasn't he? It wasn't like the people didn't deserve it.  They were the kind of people who swore they were loyal to you, got deep into your heart, then betrayed you, abandoned you. If a couple of knuckle sandwiches were what it took to keep them quiet, keep his friends out of jail or out of the grave, he could take the responsibility of serving them up.

He had doubts sometimes. But he was good at ignoring his doubts. When the private investigator he'd warned to keep away from Jimena told him that her mother was looking for her, scared she might be dead, he dismissed it as a lie. Out here the P.I.s were barely one step above mercenaries, and Stan had no reason to believe him.

When he'd been told to watch a couple of frightened-looking teenagers and make sure they didn't leave, he didn't ask the questions that he knew he should have been asking. Instead, he told them a couple of bad jokes, offered them some of his gum and played a few games of cards with them until they seemed to calm down. One of them was even smiling. But then Jorge came back and the smile went away, and he took them somewhere else.

Stan told himself that if they were in trouble they'd have told him so. They'd have asked him for help. Wouldn't they?

But the final straw had been when Ernesto tapped him on the shoulder and said to follow him to a little place out in the jungle. He said there was someone in a locked shed who needed to be 'dealt with.' “Don't mess up his face,” he'd said, “And don't break anything, he needs to work tomorrow. Just put a little fear into him.”

Stan had been nervous already, but when he opened the door and found himself face to face with a kid who couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, that was the final straw. He was young, couldn't be any older than Stan had been when he first found himself on the streets, huddled in the corner and looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.

He'd taken a step closer and the kid had moaned. Too exhausted from fear to even flinch or pull away. Just dreading what he knew was coming next.

He couldn't tell himself this was okay. He wasn't that good of a liar.

It had taken some time and some coaxing to convince the kid he wasn't gonna hurt him. Even more time, time they didn't have, to get him to talk about what happened. It was a ransom, or at least it had started out as that. He and his brother had been taken off the road and held hostage until their family found a way to scrape up the money the cartel was demanding. The miraculous part was that somehow their family had succeeded, had begged or borrowed or stolen the money and left it at the appointed spot only to get a letter demanding more.

Turns out that for ransomers, there's never any real motivation to give the kidnapped people back and every reason to keep the family on the hook forever, getting as much out of them as they can until they give up hope of ever seeing their loved ones again. After that, what happens to them depends on who's holding them and how much they've seen. The luckiest ones get dumped in the middle of nowhere and let go. Most of them go to a shallow grave in the jungle. Apparently they'd decided this kid could make them money another way, and when he'd resisted the idea they'd locked him in there.

Of course, Stan couldn't just leave him. And of course, when he begged Stan to help his brother escape too, he had to listen. And of course while they were sneaking his brother out of that basement he was being kept in Jorge rounded the corner and saw them. The kid tried to run, and when Jorge aimed to shoot him down Stan had tackled him like an idiot. His damn hotheaded brain, making him act without thinking again. Stan was strong, but Jorge was a monster. A couple hits from those juggernaut fists and Stan was looking up at him through the blood dripping into his eyes and seeing the glint of a knife, hearing Jorge cursing him for his betrayal. He'd fucked up again, and he was going to be gutted for it.

Luckily, something deep in him gave him the presence of mind to remember what was strapped to his ankle, and the steady hand to aim and fire. Jorge stopped in his tracks, collapsing to the ground as Stan put three bullets in his chest.

He didn't know what happened to the kid and his brother. Ran while he and Jorge were fighting, he assumed. He hoped they'd make it to safety somewhere. That was more than he'd probably be able to say for himself.

If he was lucky there had been no one in earshot to hear the bullets. If he was lucky it'd be a while before Jorge was found. But even if he _was_ lucky, those people knew the jungle better than he did. They knew how to track and surround someone, how to pick them off from a distance with a few well-aimed shots. Not that Stan thought he'd be that lucky. Jorge's friends wouldn't give him the mercy of a surprise bullet in the brain. Stan did his best not to think about the details.

He'd give anything to be back in the states selling fake lottery tickets, flopping on cars and robbing snack machines. Petty shit that didn't get anybody killed.

Stan's legs were starting to shake underneath him, and he decided that it might be smarter to find a place to hide than to keep blindly trudging forward through the green. At least then he could rest and try to make some sort of plan. There wasn't any sun to guide him, and he couldn't navigate by the stars with the canopy so thick, so for all he knew he was going in a giant circle. But if he hid himself well and held tight, whoever was searching for him might end up passing him right by.

He crept into the knot where a few different trees had grown together, hoisting himself off the ground and doing his best to camouflage himself with branches. It wouldn't hide him well in daylight, but at this time of night it was probably enough. If he could get his heart to stop pounding for a minute, he might even be able to catch an hour or two of real rest before he had to get moving again, had to try to find his way out of the jungle alive.

He didn't know how long he'd been hunkered down when he heard the footsteps. Slow, careful movements. Whoever it was, they were taking a few steps, pausing as if looking around, then taking a few more. Searching for someone.

Stan bit his lip to keep from groaning. This was it. If he bolted now, they'd catch him in a heartbeat—a half-blind gringo too cool to wear his glasses half the time and too dumb to get a feel for the jungle after months of living here? He wouldn't stand a chance. His only hope was to hold his breath and pray that that he wasn't seen or heard. His only chance was that he'd be passed by.

He waited, keeping still as he could. The man was coming closer—of course he was, Stan had left a trail any idiot could see in the dark. Damn, damn, damn. Running at this point would just get his knees shot out. He had one chance to take him by surprise, and that would be it. He squeezed the gun in his fist, took a breath, and leaped forward.

The man was quick, but not quick enough, and he stepped back a second too late. Stan grappled him, quickly getting the gun up by his head. The man froze. 

“Si te mueves, te voy a matar.” Stan whispered. “¿Cuántos más están cerca?”

The man didn't respond at first. Then quietly, unsteadily he said, “...Stanley?”

The familiar voice, unreal, impossible in this place a million miles and seven years away from Glass Shard Beach hit Stan's ears and he froze. It _was_ impossible. It had to be a trick, somehow, he didn't know how, but a trick. It couldn't be...

“Stanley...? It's me...it's just me...” the voice came again, and this time he was certain.

It was Stanford's voice.

How...how was this...he was holding a gun to his brother's head. He was holding a gun to Ford's head, and when he realized that it finally sent signals from his brain back into his limbs and let him lower the weapon, release him from his hold.

Stan took a step back...and yes, even in the dark he could see well enough to know his brother's face. Somehow, impossibly, he was here.

“Ford!?” he hissed. “What....how in the hell...what are you doing here?”

Ford seemed at a loss for words. Stan, on the other hand, had too many to keep in his mouth. They were all spilling out, faster than he could manage them.

“How the hell did you even get out here? Ma said you were in Oregon or something...did you just hop a plane to Columbia and wander into the middle of the jungle so you could show up out of nowhere like a spook—”

“Columbia.....” Ford sounded like he was talking to himself more than Stan. “All right. That makes sense...”

Stan stared. It had been years since he'd seen him in anything other than a photograph. An image from the past suddenly here in the all-too-pressing present. He looked shaken. Well, of course. He probably hadn't expected his estranged brother jumping on his back and threatening him with a pistol.

But...

A man doesn't just wander deep into cartel-controlled territory for no reason. You don't just run into your twin brother on the other side of the world by accident.

“You came looking for me.” Stan said softly. “...Didn't you?”

Ford looked back at Stan, something huge and sad and unreadable in his face. Very suddenly, he reached forward and pulled Stan into a tight embrace.

“I'm so sorry, Stanley.” he whispered.

Stan nearly yelped, a suicidally dangerous thing to do given their situation. He wiggled uncomfortably, pushing his way out of his brother's arms.

“Yeah, well...you picked just about the worst possible time to come find me.” he whispered. “...Shit. I really did leave a trail here, didn't I? This place isn't safe. C'mon, follow me.”

Stan grabbed Ford's arm and started to pull, but Ford pulled back, digging his heels in and resisting.

“What are you talking about?” Ford asked. “Explain it to me...please. What do you mean, it isn't safe?”

“I mean, we need to get moving _now._ ” Stan hissed. “We need to get as far away from here as fast as we can, before....”

He hesitated. Guilt started to claw its way into him. He couldn't tell Ford about the teenagers, about the people he'd hurt for the cartel. Ford had to know at least a _little_ already, he couldn't have tracked him this far without getting a taste of his criminal record. But that didn't mean he knew the full extent of it.

If he did...he'd probably have stopped looking.

“Look,” Stan said. “The details don't matter. What matters is, right now there's probably about a dozen guys combing the jungle for me. And I don't even _know_ what they'll do to you, but it's not gonna be good. If they don't mistake you for me and kill you, they'll...” Stan trailed off. He didn't want to think about it.

Ford paused, like he was thinking. “Would you feel safer if we found someplace to hide?” he asked.

“Uh, _yes._ Yes Ford, I think I just might feel safer if we were hiding right now instead of standing in the moonlight like a couple of idiots looking to get murdered.”

“All right.” Ford nodded and offered Stan his hand. “Let's hide.”

Stan hesitated only an instant before taking it. They had no time to waste. He pulled Ford behind him, taking more care this time to step lightly and crush as little as possible underfoot.

He felt...strangely distant. Like he was watching this happen from far away, or in a dream. After everything that had happened that night—the fight, the smell of Jorge's blood as he lay on his back bleeding out, the tiny scared voices of the kid and his brother—he'd have thought he'd taken all the shock a man could handle without dying from it. Then this happened. Ford. Ford was here.

Ford was here after seven years. Ford was with him. Ford had hugged him. Ford had come looking for him. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Unreal as it all seemed, there'd be very real consequences for his actions if he didn't get them hidden fast. There was a promising little niche in the underbrush, behind a cluster of greenery and half-sheltered by a fallen tree. He gripped Ford's hand and pulled him towards it. Ford gave him a boost, helping him over the log and allowing Stan to pull him up after.

They crouched there and waited. Stan did his best to peek through the leaves of the plants surrounding them without making his head too visible.

After a while, Ford spoke again. “Stanley, I...”

“Shh!” Stan hissed. The constant chirp and buzz made by the insects all around them gave them some cover for noise, but talking was still risky. “Keep quiet...if they hear us ...”

“...I don't think they're going to.” Ford said. “And I really would like to talk with you now. If you feel up to it.”

“Why!?” Stan whispered, exasperated. “Why now!? Why is it so important for us to talk? Why not a year ago, or five, or...” he swallowed. “Just...just stay quiet. Please. We need to stay quiet.”

Ford opened his mouth again, then closed it without making a sound. Stan kept his gaze fixed on the jungle around them, alert for any sign of movement. Even if Jorge's friends didn't find them, there were so many dangers out here....

He felt Ford's hand reach out and squeeze his shoulder. He flinched. The contact was like an electric shock.

“It's going to be okay.” Ford whispered. At least he was trying to stay quiet.

“No...” Stan muttered. “No it isn't...” He rubbed his eyes. “Look, Ford. I've made some mistakes...Bad mistakes. But these people coming after me...they're not like me, okay? Not even at my worst. They're...they're dangerous...”

“I'm sure they are.” Ford said, his tone calm and even. “But you don't have to worry about them anymore.”

“You're not listening, Ford! They're coming---”

“No.” Ford said, gently but firmly. “They're not coming. They're all long gone.”

Stan stared at Ford. He wasn't panicking. He didn't even look scared. How could he be so calm? Ford let go of his shoulder and took Stan's right hand in both of his.

“Will you do something for me, Stanley? Please? It would mean a lot to me.”

Stan frowned, looking away. “Sure, fine.”

“Look down at our hands. Really _look_ at them.”

Stan sighed and obligingly looked down. Ford had laced Stan's fingers through his,  holding his hand the way only someone with six fingers can, every one of Stan's digits held between one of Ford's. It was a strangely comforting sensation, still familiar after all this time. There was a small shaft of moonlight that had found its way through the trees falling over them, like a spotlight. Stan frowned. Something was wrong. Ford's hands looked diseased, or dirty, or....

Stan's heart caught in his throat. It wasn't dirt, it wasn't a shadow or a trick of the light...something was wrong with Ford's hands. The skin was loose and wrinkled. There were nicks and tiny scars he didn't recognize...and with growing horror he realized his own hand looked the same. Wrinkled and pale and alien to him.

“What....?! What is this....?” Stan yanked his arm back and held it against his chest. He looked at Ford, heart racing. “What happened to us?”

“We got old, Stanley.” Ford smiled sadly at him. “It happens to everyone, if they're lucky.”

“But...”

Ford carefully reached out again, to see if Stan would let him take his hand again. Stan did. He felt like he was about to fall off a hundred story building, he needed something to hold onto.

“I know this is confusing, and it's frightening. And I know...in the last few years that you remember right now, I didn't give you much reason to. But...will you trust me now?”

Stan felt himself nodding without making a decision to do so.

“Trust me when I tell you that you're safe. No one's coming to hurt you. Those men who were looking for you are all gone, and they have been for years.”

Stan looked back out at the jungle.

“You got away from them somehow, Stanley. Tell me how. Try to remember how you got away from them...”

“I...” Stan hesitated. “...A...a friend helped me.” he whispered. “I hid out here for a day and a half...when I made it to the road, they were everywhere. They'd have killed me but he saw me first. Helped me sneak out in some illegal exotic animal shipment...” he shuddered. “Something went wrong and I ended up locked in a cage with a tranquilized panther. For eight hours...I remember how it smelled...why can I remember that?”

“Because it already happened to you.”

“But...” Stan put his free hand against his forehead. He could see the cage, see the inside of the truck. And the shock on the face of the man who was supposed to let him out when he saw the state he'd been traveling in. “Stop laughing...it's not funny.”

“It's okay.” Ford said. “I'm here. You're safe. ...Tell me if you can remember anything else...”

“...I changed my name again after that...” he muttered. “Stayed low. Tried just getting a job in a store at first but that didn't work out. Ended up...ended up....” he frowned. He had images in his brain...a stray cat. A man with a mole above his upper lip. A series of brightly lit casinos. A river...none of them connected, none of them made sense...

“It's okay, take your time.” Ford said.

“Ended up in a river? No, that's...that doesn't make any sense....a riverboat casino, maybe...” He frowned, no, that wasn't right either. And there were other images cropping up in his mind, confusing things more. Selling coconuts by the roadside. Slipping a folded up bill into an airport clerk's front pocket. Someone huge and sweaty holding him in a headlock while someone with a wheezy cough laughed. The taste of watered-down beer and something fungal. Green carpet with circles. Plastic spoons. Snow. They all came one after another with no order and no story to sort them by. He gritted his teeth and pressed a palm against his forehead, trying to make sense of it all.

Ford tugged on Stan's hand a little bit, pulling him closer. Stan's head was spinning, and he let himself fall against Ford's chest, felt Ford drape an arm over him.

“New Mexico.” he finally said. “I ended up in New Mexico...ran into Rico again. Thought he'd kill me for what happened to Jorge but he was friendly. They'd had a falling out too...said he wanted to help me out...but...” He remembered a loan...he had some business plan he was going to invest it in...some stupid door-to-door thing... “...It ended— ended up...”

Stan stammered and stopped. He'd left town...not to escape Rico's thugs or to start over, but for another reason. He looked up at Ford's deeply lined face.

“You called me...you needed me.”

Ford nodded solemnly. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. Stan felt sick in the pit of his stomach, and the only thing he he was sure of was that he didn't want to know what came next. This story that was falling into place....if he just stopped telling it here, maybe he could prevent something awful from happening. He felt Ford's other arm wind around him, take his hand and squeeze it.

“I did...” he said. “...Do you remember the next part?”

“Oh no...no, no, no, no...” Stan closed his eyes. “Please...don't make me...I don't want to remember...”

Ford was saying something, but Stan couldn't hear it. All he could hear were the echoes of Ford's screams as he floated away from him, into that horrible circle of blue light. Stan could see him looking back into the thing that was consuming him, pulling him away.

“You were screaming for me to help you. And I couldn't...” he said, clenching his teeth. “I just _stood_ there, like an idiot, stuck to the floor...and it was my fault. I pushed you in there....”

“No.” Ford said firmly. “You didn't even know about the portal's gravitational force. It was all an accident. A tragic one that shouldn't have happened.”

Stan clenched his teeth and shook his head hard. It shouldn't have happened but it did, it did and it was all his—

“And you know what?” Ford's voice interrupted his thoughts. “You saved me. You got me back....Because you never gave up on me. You kept trying for years, and years, and years, and you never gave up....”

The images were starting to fall together faster...endless nights spent staring at an incomprehensible array of controls. Waking up behind the wheel of his car as he rolled down a hill because he'd nodded off after another night of fruitless study. Holding a thick, leather-bound book against his chest like a child clutching a blanket against the darkness. Days of routine broken up by moments of panic when something from the woods or from his own past came too near. So many days...so many....

And then, suddenly, he was past that...all those days seemed to have passed him by on their way into his own personal history. The trouble with Rico, the terror as he'd watched Ford being torn away, the sorrow that followed for so many years...it was all the past. Just as Ford had said...it had happened so long ago. A memory.

His brother was here with him. Of that, he could be sure. He didn't know how, but somehow he'd gotten him back.

Something else was missing, though...something important. Someone? No...more than one. There were years and people still missing from his mind. He felt certain if he just ...concentrated....

Washing a sweater that smelled like grape syrup and craft glue. Helping a pudgy little boy put on a pair of boxing gloves. Bending down to pull a baseball cap over a tiny face. Pretending not to notice someone sneaking up to the roof. 

It was like turning a corner and finding a lifetime's worth of presents stacked up against the wall, but with everything jumbled and out of order. Clay monsters, puppets, falling from someplace high, a golf club, the sound of an air horn, water dripping from stalactites, flames traveling up walls, someone singing giddily, fireworks, wax figures, being forced into the back of a car, losing touch with the ground

“Do you remember what happened? The kids? That summer I came back?”

Stan shook his head.

“That's okay. We don't have a scrapbook with us, but I'll talk you through it. And it'll come back.” He spoke with confidence, and with certainty.  “It always comes back.”

And when he said that, Stan found to his surprise that he believed him.

* * *

 

Ford wasn't certain how long he and Stan spent huddled there. It might be his imagination, but it seemed to him that things had come back faster than usual. In fact, he remembered thinking the same thing last time Stan's uncertain memory had failed him. If this was indicative of a trend...if recovery was slowly growing easier for Stan...well. Ford tried to keep objective about this sort of thing, but it wasn't always easy.

Typically, by the time Stan's memories of Weirdmageddon returned, he was able to recover the rest on his own. He just needed time, and a little quiet so that he could process things.

“...We're not even in Columbia at all...are we?” Stan muttered.

“Indonesia.” Ford said. “The rainforest environment must have confused you. Possibly triggered something in your memory.”

“Yeesh.” Stan slowly sat up, and Ford reluctantly released him from the hug. He stretched and cracked his back. “...Sorry about that.”

“Never mind. I'm just glad I caught up with you.” Ford said.

“We're sure to have lost track of that flying head thing you were after by now...” Stan pointed out.

“Doesn't matter. Tomorrow's another day.” Ford replied. “Besides, we can still follow the blood trail when it gets light.”

Stan sighed and nodded. “...Thanks for bringin' me back, Poindexter.”

Ford smiled, a flicker of pride burning in him at the thanks. He didn't enjoy these periods, when Stan's memory fell out from under him. He didn't like the frustration and fear that Stan had to go through, or the trauma of reliving painful memories. And he didn't like seeing Stan in that state. But he was glad to be there for him. He was glad that his presence helped.

“You're welcome.” Ford stood, brushing what he could of the mud and leaves from his clothes, then reaching down to offer a hand up. “Thanks for bringing _me_ back.”

Stan smiled and took his hand.


End file.
